


for years or for hours

by rubyboys



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Christmas, First Time, Fluff, Heartwarming, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Injury, M/M, Mild horror/gore at the beginning, Porn, Schmoop, Smut, Winter, romantic, yes it's heartwarming porn lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyboys/pseuds/rubyboys
Summary: Merlin is ill, Arthur is injured, and revelations are had.Or,it's the middle of winter, but Merlin feels warm.





	for years or for hours

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'In A Week' by Hozier.

Merlin’s not looking when it strikes.

It’s a fast, shadowy thing, the skin of its pointed wings so thin that Merlin can see Arthur’s silhouette through it, can see Arthur’s outstretched sword and raised, stubborn chin.

It’s a stupid mistake, but he waits a split-second too long: he’s caught off-guard by the vision of _Arthur_ , the shape of him through the flesh of something evil. Merlin doesn’t notice the beast’s claws, like long iron blades, plunging towards him. In the dark, he doesn’t see the whites of its eyes.

But then, the world is taken by a startling expanse of black, eaten up entirely by a shocking void—until he realises that he can see the moon, fuzzy and far away, and the rough lines of treetops against the night sky. He’s strewn on the black, wet forest floor, the rain pelting down on his limp body, but he can’t really feel it.

He can hear Arthur shouting.

It tears at his heart, makes him want to sit up and see, makes his magic charge up in a roiling, furious mass in his chest. But the moon is disappearing, the treetops slipping sideways into the press of his eyelids, and Arthur’s roar feels quieter, like he’s listening to him from underwater. Merlin’s magic shudders, and sighs, and then it’s all over.

His eyes are closed when Arthur hits the ground too, landing barely a foot away from him with a hurt grunt, his sword skidding away on the damp dirt.

He’s unconscious when Arthur lets out a throaty, broken scream, one that eats up the grim, wet sound of hook-like claws ripping into his stomach.

He’s lost to the silence when the night fills with the sound of the knights’ feet, dashing desperately against the ground, and the whipping of wings against the air.

~

Merlin sleeps.

A sluggish, rolling sleep, it swaddles him up and carries him, leisurely, from forest floor to hard bed, and weighs him down even in the daylight. He loses himself in it.

The few waking moments he has over the coming days are vignetted by a thick tiredness, forever crushed by the heavy hang of his eyelids, and lost amid the deep, bodily ache of his bones. He’s in a bed, somewhere—that he knows—and it’s been at least a few days, because light has come and gone a few times, along with repeat visits from the knights trying to get him to drink water and whatever foul potion they’ve pulled together.

He’s not at home, he knows, not in Camelot. There’s a persistent wish at the back of his mind, anyway, that the next time he opens his eyes, he’ll be back home, and Arthur will be well, and this tight line of tension in his shoulders will disappear.

Context comes back slowly.

It was a quest. Uther would never usually send the knights away at this time of year, not in the cold, and he’d never even think to send Arthur out into the fray mid-winter, but Arthur was stubborn.

Brave, you know, the way he always is, the way it lights up his eyes and puts a knot in his jaw. Stupidly brave. There was a beast—something they couldn’t put a name to, something terrible—wreaking havoc on small, rural villages, and Arthur said he needed to go. Merlin, of course, went with him.

But it went wrong, Merlin remembers. It’s not safe to go questing when it’s this cold, when darkness falls so early in the day. The knights were sure it was a bad idea, but then, after days and days of not being able to find the beast, after nights and nights of convincing themselves if they just stay out a little later, they’ll find it—the beast found them.

He can’t make sense of it, but some memories come back clearly.

Black sky. Wet forest floor. The sound of shouting. Those terrible wings. And Arthur.

Realising that he’s sick comes slow and horrible, sinks under his skin as he dreams until it’s a real, tangible thing that pins him to the mattress and keeps him from waking.

The realisation that Arthur was wounded—seriously, terribly injured—booms into his dreams like a punch of thunder, and, from then on, his dreams change, malformed by fear. He dreams in short, cutting images that flicker fast behind his eyelids. In each of them, Arthur is hurt, and Merlin can’t help him.

It’s a terrible thing to dream.

One evening, he manages to catch a couple of lucid moments, between the sound of wings, the sound of screaming. It’s twilight, and there’s two shadowy figures in his doorway, talking softly. They look towards him as he grunts, tries to find his hands beneath himself, and suddenly all he can see is Arthur’s face, Arthur’s troubled eyes and parted lips, and Arthur’s hands, strong and taking Merlin’s face between his palms.

And then sleep rolls him under again, a swift crush that keeps him down until morning.

~

The next time he wakes up, he thinks this will be the one that sticks.

He’s been lucid under closed eyes, able to keep track of his thoughts for a few minutes now, so he’s fairly sure he’s not stuck in his nightmares anymore. He opens his eyes with caution, and, immediately, his question is answered. He’s not in Camelot.

The morning sun passes into the room through starchy pale curtains, creating watery bands of light, each cross-hatched with faint shadow. The room itself is a small, narrow, clean place, like one that might belong to a healer, like Gaius. It’s not a room Merlin has ever seen before. It’s a strange feeling, to lie in a bed he’s lived in for the past few days, and feel as though it’s the first time he’s ever looked at it. His bed is low to the ground, covered in crumpled white sheets that have left sleep lines up his right arm.

There’s a small, icy window on the wall behind him, but across the room there’s a larger window, drawn over in spiralling circles of ice, revealing a weak, fine snowfall.

His nightmares are whispering at the nape of his neck, but it’s morning, and Merlin won’t let it bother him. He’s ill-at-ease enough already. There’s a heavy pressure in his head, a horrible headache, holding him tightly and make him feverish and uncomfortable. But he has to see Arthur.

With a deep breath, he swings his legs out of the bed, and tries to walk towards the door.

That’s not happening.

He staggers, and knows right then that it’s an impossible feat. He’s not ready to get up. His feet twist and slip on the cool floor, and he jerks back to land awkwardly on the bed, breathing hard. Little pinpricks of light are swirling urgently in front of his eyes, and it takes time to blink them away.

Merlin braces himself carefully on the edge of the bed, breathing deliberately and slowly, and commits himself to just staying here until he feels well enough to get up. He doesn’t want to be stupid and hurt himself further. Arthur would never let him hear the end of it.

His heart hurts suddenly, a nasty pang of worry that he blinks away. He will find out when he is ready to get up. It almost makes him not want to get up at all.

“Merlin.”

_Arthur._

Merlin turns his head, and there he is, stood in the doorway, really there, and Merlin’s stomach swoops with relief. He lets out the tension in his shoulders with a breath, blinks heavy eyelids, and looks at Arthur in open relief. Nearly giddy.

He grins. Or he thinks he does. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of control over any of his muscles.

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur exclaims, moving towards him quickly. He fits his hands under Merlin’s armpits and pushes him back onto the bed, letting him lie down properly against the pillows.

“Trying—” _Trying to get up,_ he wants to say, but the words slam against his lips and don’t go any further. He’s too tired, too feverish. He can’t keep his eyes off of Arthur, though.

“Here,” Arthur says, placing the duvet back over Merlin. “You utter madman. You are in bed for a reason, you know.”

Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes confidently, but he looks wrong. For all the loud, declaratory nature of his entrance, his shoulders are high and tense, his knees locked and stiff in his effort to stand up. His hand hovers by his stomach. There’s a faint discomfort in his calm expression that could be easily missed by anyone but Merlin.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice is slurred with sleep, a mumble, but Arthur understands him anyway. He stands up straight and lets out a brief scoff. “Trust you to worry about _me,_ ” he remarks. “You’re the one who’s been practically comatose for three days.”

Merlin nearly rolls his eyes—would, if it weren’t for his headache. “Dollophead,” he says.

It’s more of an unintelligible groan than a word, but Arthur argues, “Hey!” immediately. “You’re the dollophead,” he says, softer than he normally would, and moves across to stand at the end of the bed.

“The beast,” Merlin asks immediately, hoarse and cracked.

“It cursed you. Magical illness,” he explains, with deliberate calmness. He’s leaning against the wall in an attempt to appear casual, but his hand is still waiting awkwardly near his stomach, protective, and flinching away any time his fingers accidentally brush his top. “We don’t know exactly what it was, but we found an accomplished-enough healer to help. And she helped.”

That doesn’t sit well with Merlin, even through his stupor. The only way to cure a magical illness is through using magic, any villager would know that. And Arthur would never willingly work with a sorcerer.

Would he?

The words don’t come easily; it’s too hard to sort through the heavy clouds in his head obscuring his thoughts, settling like thick dust over the things he wants to say, until Merlin can’t remember what he wanted to say at all. What he ends up saying is, “I don’t understand,” and it’s close enough that he lets his expression communicate the rest, a troubled frown.

“Hey,” Arthur says. He sits down at the end of Merlin’s bed, and disguises a strange wince by clapping Merlin briefly on the leg. “You’re well now. You, uh. Got through the worst of it. We’re just waiting on you to be well enough to ride so we can take you back to Gaius.”

Merlin watches him.

“Your stomach.”

Arthur’s mouth opens wordlessly for a second, before it breaks into a light, cautious smile. “It’s a wound. But I’ve been wounded before.”

He looks at Merlin, but doesn’t seem settled by the expression he finds there, so he continues.

“It scratched me, quite deeply, over my lower ribs. It didn’t do any major damage, and the healer has said I’ll be fine to ride by tomorrow, at the latest.” Arthur waves his hand flippantly, and doesn’t look at Merlin. “If anything, it just stings.”

And that’s the final straw.

It’s not Merlin’s best idea, but, annoyed and struggling with words as he is, he channels all the energy he has into his left foot, and kicks Arthur’s lower back where he’s sat at the end of the bed.

Arthur gasps, a genuine expression of shock—quickly followed by irritation—appearing on his face. He raises his hands in surprise, staring at Merlin in wait of an answer.

Merlin scrunches up his nose and kicks him again.

“Merlin!” Arthur announces, indignant, and Merlin readies himself to kick Arthur for a third time. Arthur seems to sense it coming, with his good reflexes, and grabs Merlin’s ankle through the sheets, fixing Merlin with a shocked stare.

Merlin lets out a deep breath, glaring at him. He scuffles briefly with his better judgment before tossing it aside, like he always does when it comes to Arthur.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says firmly. “Sire.” 

It’s work, getting the words out, and they stick together slightly, made loose by his dazed tiredness, but they seem to do the trick. It hits Arthur hard, makes him fidget, look away, his cheeks a little flushed. He stares at the low chest of drawers across the room as he considers his words, before finally committing to plain honesty. It’s something Merlin always admires about Arthur. A brave and complete honesty.

“I don’t remember,” he admits, slowly, talking to the lowest drawer on the dresser. “But, apparently, it was…”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands together. The tension in his back is clearly visible, palpable in the air. Makes Merlin almost want to touch him, smooth it out of him.

“It wasn’t looking great, for a few hours. The knights were brilliant, really stepped up and, uh, found a healer, who fixed me within a matter of hours. It’s nothing to worry about, but it. It hurts. I’m going to have to be careful.” He pauses, seemingly finished, but then he takes a breath and adds, “For quite a while.”

And then he looks over to Merlin with troubled, nearly anguished eyes, his lips pressed together in worry.

“But then when I woke up, they said you were—” He stops short, and takes a careful breath. “You were ill,” he says, like the words are impossible, “and that it wasn’t looking good either. And she couldn’t fix you. But I told her, just do anything, anything you have to do, anything at all.” He swallows and raises his eyes to the window across the room, and Merlin sees that his eyes are a little red. “She said you’ll be up and about by the end of the week.”

Merlin considers this. It’s a nasty thought, and what’s worse is the quiet ache in Arthur’s voice, and the way he’s trying so hard to smooth it over, to sound relaxed. There’s a tumultuous sea there, rushing tides of worry and morality and duty and pain, and how the hell does someone map out all of that, get to the heart of it, and make it better? Arthur is aching. And Merlin owes him his life.

And then, what Merlin considers, is that it’s a bit cold.

Yes, he confirms to himself, there’s a cold chill in the air, and Arthur is hardly dressed for the winter. In fact, he’s most likely been horrendously underdressed these past few days, without Merlin’s invaluable help getting him ready in the mornings. He’s most likely freezing.

Merlin swings his duvet up, nudging Arthur lightly with his toes, making obvious the warm and empty space in the bed.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, and Arthur just stares back, wordless.

Merlin’s not confused, and he’s not offering this out of fatigue. He has those defenses ready on his lips; he’s _not_ confused. He’s more lucid than ever. It’s just impulsive—but it’s hard not to be impulsive around someone like Arthur.

Arthur’s expression is unreadable. He’s just staring. And then, abruptly, he goes, “I owe you my life, you know.”

Merlin grunts in surprise.

“It was going for me. And you were in its way. My injury could’ve been a lot worse had you not been there to slow it down.”

Merlin lets out a laugh. That’s what he’s there for. He smiles, and this time, he knows he’s really smiling, helplessly, without inhibition, as much in his eyes as his mouth.

Arthur watches him further, and his chest heaves with a silent breath.

And then, without a word, he shifts down the bed and gets under the duvet.

It’s scary, terrifying, thrilling, and Merlin suddenly considers that maybe this is too delicate a situation for now. It’s too breakable and too precious, the stakes too high, and Merlin thinks suddenly that he shouldn’t have forced it, that maybe he misread it.

But.

But Arthur did get into bed with him. Who knows what it means, why Merlin offered, why Arthur did it, but he’s here. The weight of it all rests like a whole other person in the few inches between them. He opens his mouth, tries to find some words, watching Arthur helplessly.

Arthur makes himself comfortable, curling up opposite Merlin and mirroring his position, but his cheeks are red, his eyes focused. He deliberately doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes at first, but then he does, he looks right at him. Nerves spike in Merlin’s stomach, a hot flush immediately crawling up his neck and cheeks.

And then Arthur’s eyes crinkle up, and he lets out a gentle, hearty laugh. Breathless. Merlin lets out the breath he was holding, splutters a laugh, and lets himself feel the warmth, spreading from Arthur’s body to his. It’s not cold anymore.

There’s nothing to say, because words fall short. And perhaps Arthur doesn’t have the words for this, doesn’t know how to make sense of these feelings, or how to talk to Merlin about it. But it doesn’t matter, because everything’s okay, now. He’s here, feeling it, warm and smiling and close.

Arthur cringes and says, “You’re so cold,” and Merlin grins sleepily. He knows a challenge when he sees one. He puts his hand on Arthur’s arm, slots his leg between Arthur’s calves, and Arthur squirms away, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

Merlin says, “You’re too warm,” and Arthur shakes his head, grinning. Arthur looks so relieved, so _okay_ , and the joy of it thrums through Merlin like lightning, like magic. Enough to wake up him, to help him feel more lucid.

They fall quiet, and stay like that for a moment. Merlin swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and finds himself counting his breaths, keeping calm. His headache is gone.

“You’re ill,” Arthur says, softly, like a question.

“I don’t feel that bad,” Merlin answers, honestly. He talks slowly, but he gets the words out. The words come easier now that his head doesn’t hurt so much. “A healer fixed me?” He won’t ask any further than that. It’s too sensitive. Too heavy.

Arthur nods tensely. “Yes. She thinks the beast had some kind of poisonous scratch that can induce illness, and even coma. You’re very lucky to wake up at all. We just have to keep an eye on you, she said.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but I prefer to make sure.”

“You really care, then?”

“Yes,” Arthur says plainly, meeting Merlin’s eyes. “Yes. Of course.”

Merlin inhales sharply, and lets the silence settle between them, sharper this time.

“Okay,” he says.

Arthur watches him with a surprising intimacy, openly appraising Merlin’s face. His eyebrows are burrowed a little, his mouth a tight line, but the longer he looks at Merlin, the longer Merlin looks right back, the more he seems to calm down. He visibly relaxes after a moment, and closes his eyes. His legs draw a little closer to Merlin, his arm softens under Merlin’s hand.

It’s intimate, madly close, and Merlin knows that any other other time it wouldn’t be okay.

Now, though, it’s okay. For whatever reason, it’s okay. It’s perfect.

“Will we be back for Christmas?” Merlin asks, attempting conversation, and Arthur purses his lips in amusement.

“I just might hit you if you keep talking, Merlin,” he says, eyes still closed. “Are we or are we not trying to sleep?”

 _Oh._ Merlin smiles, accepting the new rule even as it twists uncomfortably in his gut. They’re just trying to sleep. That makes sense. Nothing more.

So he whispers, loudly, “I’m thinking of getting Gaius a teapot.”

Arthur’s eyes shoot open and, a bright light in his eyes, he rises up on his knees to push Merlin down against the mattress, and grabs a pillow to whack him with. Merlin protests, but he can’t keep the smile from his voice, the laughter from his eyes, even as he pushes as Arthur’s shoulders and complains, “Oh, God, you’re so heavy!”

Arthur whacks him again; their laughs rise into the air, blending together.

“No, I might die!” Merlin laughs.

“Not if I kill you first!” Arthur exclaims, red-cheeked and arming himself with another pillow. His knees are wedged around Merlin’s thighs. It’s one of these wonderful times when Arthur ignores all of it, ignores who he is and what they’re meant to be, and he just acts like himself instead. And Merlin never knows what that means or where the boundaries are, never knows how to act with a man who is so inextricably part of him, a man he is so intrinsically part of.

Merlin pushes against him again, and Arthur drops his pillows and instead grips Merlin’s hands, trying to wrangle him into a position of mercy, breathing harder. Merlin’s no match for him.

They laugh until the laughs dry up, and all that’s left is Arthur, leaning over Merlin, in a bed, breathless.

Arthur swallows. His thoughts are painfully visible on his face, so open—only Merlin doesn’t know how to read them.

There aren’t any clear next steps.

Merlin can’t ever find a path forward with Arthur, not when the world seems to be falling apart all around them, when they’re solving a new problem every week. Not when Arthur is forever being pulled away to another battle, another enemy that wants him dead, and Merlin is forever trying to catch up, trying to move faster, think faster, kill an enemy before it has a chance to even think about striking.

There aren’t any next steps, and there won’t be any steps when everything’s fine again, and they’re safe, and can go home. Camelot is a structure that pins them down, draws firm lines between what Merlin can and can’t say to his prince, between how Arthur can and can’t answer his servant. They can get along, they can fight, they can laugh, but they can’t be friends, and they can’t even think about anything beyond that. It’s too far.

It doesn’t feel too far, now.

Their chests are inches apart, so close Merlin thinks he can hear Arthur’s heartbeat, or maybe that’s just his own pulse, racing. Their legs are interlocked; Arthur’s hands are gripping Merlin’s between their stomachs. They’ve never been this close. And Arthur isn’t pulling away.

Not that Arthur would ever pull away from him; Merlin knows he wouldn’t, couldn’t, can’t. It’s not in his blood to back away. But he would never take the next step, either. If there were rules that allowed for this, said it was okay, then… Then Merlin thinks this would be their whole lives. _Each other_ would be their whole lives. King and consort.

Merlin stares up at him, doesn’t dare breathe. Arthur swallows, his eyebrows pinned together in a dark frown.

And here it is, the ugly reality. The rules don’t allow for this. Arthur’s just a prince, joking with his servant. And Merlin’s just a fool.

But then Arthur breaks the rules.

Because they’ve never done this, never spoken about this.

But he just places his hand by Merlin’s shoulder, and leans over him and just kisses him.

Like it’s that simple.

It’s slow, considering, thoughtful, lingering. Like there’s no stakes, like there’s no stakes at all, and under Arthur’s mouth, under the heat of it, Merlin feels hotter and dizzier than his fever had ever made him feel.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, shocked, too shocked to call him  _ sire _ or anything like that. 

And Arthur just answers him with, “Merlin,” slow and steady, and kisses him again. Merlin gasps into his mouth, arching upwards. God help him, he kisses Arthur back.

Everything changes.

Arthur holds Merlin like he thinks that if he loosens his grip, even slightly, Merlin might disappear. He holds him like he thought he might never hold him again, like he can’t be bothered to hide his fears anymore. He kisses him with a ferocity that Merlin can’t help but match, can’t help but cling to him and kiss him and hold him just as hard, because how could you ever let someone like Arthur go?

“I’m not letting you go,” he tells Merlin, like an oath, working his way down Merlin’s neck in methodical, hard kisses, kisses that could leave bruises, kisses that Merlin hopes leave bruises. With his hands on Merlin’s wrists on the pillow above them, he shifts up and takes Merlin’s mouth like he can’t believe he ever stopped.

“Don’t,” Merlin gasps, “don’t ever.”

Arthur makes a choked sound at that, his cheeks all the redder for it, and doubles down on Merlin’s lips and jaw and ears, gives him everything. It’s so much, so much, but the floodgates are open, everything unlocked, open and exposed and _shining,_ and Merlin can’t ever let this end.

His hands find their way to the hem of Arthur’s shirt, start pulling at it. Arthur obeys immediately, rises up and strips himself of it.

Merlin’s eyes cut immediately to the bandaged wound on Arthur’s stomach, and he can feel the worry visible on his own face, plain as day, but Arthur shakes him out of it. Takes Merlin’s hands and says, “Hey,” gets him back to reality, so Merlin can look up at him, take in the stunning vision of Arthur. “It’s fine,” he says, eyes big like he needs Merlin to believe it.

“Are you sure?” Merlin says, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking with that. Maybe he means the wound, maybe he means _this,_ all of this, all of it hanging in the air.

But Arthur says, “ _Yes,_ ” and balls his shirt up and chucks it on the floor, plants his hands on either side of Merlin’s face and lowers himself down to kiss him all over again.

It’s freezing cold, but he doesn’t seem to feel it at all. Merlin has seen Arthur topless dozens of times, hundreds, but he never imagined he’d been able to do this, be able to touch him like this, slide his hands up between them, up Arthur’s chest and neck and into his hair. It’s all there, for him, and Merlin is all there for Arthur too.

Everything he has, Arthur can take. And Arthur takes.

When Merlin opens his mouth, Arthur is right there, meeting him.

When Merlin pushes up, Arthur grabs Merlin by the hips to pull him close, grinds Merlin right up against him.

When Merlin tries to sit up to take his shirt off, Arthur gets there first, strips Merlin of his top and groans, spreading his broad hands over Merlin’s chest and stroking his chest and ribs over and over and over, like he can’t believe he’s really there.

And then Arthur starts talking, endlessly talking, a rushing, open stream of words that Merlin could never even imagine. He grunts them against Merlin’s lips, mouths them onto the underside of Merlin’s jaw, kisses them into Merlin’s collarbones, pleads them into Merlin’s chest, just above his heart. “I’ve been checking on you,” he confesses, “every day. Between every meal, Merlin, before sleep, and after waking. I needed to know you’d be okay.”

“I’m okay, Arthur,” Merlin says, a promise, and slides his thigh up to provide a surface for Arthur to rut against, and Arthur does.

“I tried to find it. I wanted to kill it,” he tells Merlin, with his mouth leaving a long, precious line of kisses in the hollows under Merlin’s collarbones. The words are muffled, but Merlin hears them. His hand grips Arthur’s shoulder, his eyes never leave Arthur’s face.

If there’s a word for this strong, overwhelming, gorgeous feeling, if there’s a word for wanting someone like this, then Merlin doesn’t know what it is. Love doesn’t cut it.

“I needed you, Merlin,” he pants.

It’s so much, it’s too much, filling up Merlin’s heart and making him ache, worse than sickness, better than anything he’s ever felt. Arthur keeps going.

“I went out. Just me, and my sword. But I wasn’t healed enough, and I couldn’t stop bleeding. Leon found me and brought me home.” He kisses the bottom of Merlin’s throat with an impossible delicateness, a wet swipe of his tongue. “And I just came in here and sat with you. Didn’t want to leave.”

Merlin strains needily up against him, harder until Arthur gets the message and shifts so their cocks are right up close through the fabric, perfectly slotting beside each other, and Arthur is so hard— _for Merlin_ —and Merlin can’t breathe like this.

The air between them is hot and muggy, stiflingly so, and Merlin only leans in further.

“I’m never letting you go,” Arthur vows. Gods, he can’t keep saying this, he can’t keep saying it. “Never, Merlin, never, never.”

“Arthur,” Merlin pants, a plea, and Arthur looks up at him with wide, honest eyes.

“Anything,” Arthur says, like he would never say anything else. “Anything.”

Merlin grips Arthur’s shoulders and tries to pull, and Arthur surges forward immediately, cradles Merlin’s jaw in his hand and kisses him with heated strikes of teeth and hard brushes of his tongue. It’s intoxicating, and Merlin raises his legs up, spreads wide to cradle Arthur’s hips between them, and crosses them at the ankles just below Arthur’s tailbone to pull him closer.

“Gods, Merlin,” Arthur grunts, so grateful, so relieved, and pouring all of it into Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin’s close now, as Arthur crushes down on him with sharp, certain snaps of his hips, saturates every inch of Merlin’s mouth with cherishing kisses, pushes Merlin even closer with dirty, quiet grunts.

“Close,” he warns, “I’m—” and Arthur pushes up onto his knees, grabs Merlin by the thighs and drags him immediately down the bed so that Merlin’s arse is pressed right up against Arthur’s cock. It’s a sudden, shocking gesture, but it’s perfect, it’s perfect. The pressure is gone, isn’t building quite so intensely anymore, but now Arthur is rutting, through the fabric of their trousers, into the crease of Merlin’s arse, and looking down at him with those eyes and saying, “Is this okay?”, taking Merlin’s hand firmly, locking their fingers together so that he can be all the closer, and asking again, “Merlin, is this okay?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Merlin grits out, emphatically—pleading and demanding and not-quite-believing-it all at once. “Gods, yes, Arthur.”

Arthur closes his eyes, lets his mouth fall open, and keeps rutting against Merlin.

He raises his speed but falters unsteadily, grunting in pain, and between their bellies Merlin can see Arthur’s stomach muscles fluttering rapidly.

Merlin slows down his eager kissing, puts his hands on Arthur’s chest and says, “Stop.” His voice comes out sleepy, pitched low, but Arthur stops near-immediately, with just one or two uncontrollable strokes, slip-sliding fast between Merlin’s legs.

“You’re in pain,” Merlin says, and Arthur answers, like an accusation, “You’re ill.”

Merlin can’t help but grin at that, and Arthur ducks his head and grins too.

“Don’t—don’t push it, Arthur, you’re hurt.”

Arthur turns his face from Merlin, shifts on his knees to position himself close, and slides his hands down Merlin’s thighs to spread them further. Stubborn fool.

“No,” Merlin says, placing his hand on Arthur’s chest. He still won’t look at Merlin, stuck still with that stoic, distant expression on his face. Embarrassed. And that won’t do either.

Merlin’s annoyed now, lit up with irritation the only way Arthur could make him, stupid stubborn Arthur, and says, “Hey,” firmly. The way a servant shouldn’t speak to a prince.

And Arthur looks at him with worried, distant eyes, expression unreadable, and Merlin’s not having it. He reaches up to fist his hand in Arthur’s shirt and tugs, lightly, and says, “Kiss me. _Kiss me,_ ” and Arthur opens his mouth to let out a breath, and says, “This isn’t what I—”

“Kiss me,” Merlin repeats. See, he can be just as stubborn.

And Arthur looks at him with blown, dazed eyes, breathless, and kisses him.

He sets his hands on the mattress around Merlin’s head (the pillow is long-gone, shaken off the bed) and bows down so that he can kiss Merlin. Merlin groans against his mouth a little, wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and uses his legs to pull Arthur down closer.

It’s desperate, but it’s a slow, languid kind of desperation, and Merlin can’t help but take stock of every little thing Arthur makes: each short, rough grunt, each hitch of his breath, each shallow, urgent, slow roll of his hips. It’s grateful, it’s kind.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, low and reverent as they kiss. Arthur says Merlin’s name like it’s a spell, like it’s a prayer. Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever been loved as openly and gratefully as this. He’s never been touched like he’s too burning hot to keep hold of, and clutched tight like he’s worth it anyway.

Arthur grinds down into him as Merlin grinds up to meet him, each of them gasping as their bodies take what they need from each other in equal measure, sharing something perfectly between them, like it’s easy, like it’s just that simple.

Merlin is warm now, sweating, but it’s not a fever. “Please,” he says, and it comes out like a whine, “I’m close.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, breathless, “yes.” It’s both permission and plea.

Merlin presses his fingers into Arthur’s arms and lets go. He comes with a cut-off shout, wetting the fabric between their cocks so it’s stickier, better, and his muscles stiffen and strain, his lungs searching for breath as he mouths shapes into Arthur’s neck.

He can feel it when Arthur comes—just seconds later, while Merlin is still strung out and gasping, dazed with it—because he stiffens up for a second, goes still and swears under his breath, and the space between their cocks starts to get hotter, wetter. His hips stutter back to life, and he rides out the rest of his orgasm in trembling, languid strokes.

When it’s over, he collapses down onto Merlin, and shifts slightly to the side so that they can look each other, still interlocking, still breathless, still close.

They’re both filthy now, Merlin is sure, and sex can’t be good for either of them—someone who’s been nearly comatose for several days, and someone with a questing injury—but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels alive like this, his heart vibrating under his skin, the feeling of Arthur’s heartbeat against his chest, the feeling of relief, thrumming in the air around them like a revelation. He stares at Arthur through heavy, tired eyes. He feels boiling now, even as he watches the vague flutter of snowfall outside, and Arthur’s still panting, a bit sweaty, staring right back at him. Merlin’s hand is resting on Arthur’s chest, rising and falling with Arthur’s quick breaths, and he hopes to the gods that Arthur won’t push him away.

They’ve never been close like this, open like this. Not in this way.

And Arthur pulls Merlin in by the hips, taking him into his arms so that he can kiss him again, one last time before they get the rest they both really need. He brushes against Merlin’s lips softly, thoughtfully, gently, and Merlin closes his eyes and sighs with the sweetness of it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop kissing Arthur. He’s completely fine with it, too. Merlin tucks his thumb under Arthur’s chin to raise his jaw up and kisses him again, even softer, and Arthur meets him firmly.

“We need rest,” he tells Merlin, softly, as their lips pull apart.

Merlin buries his face into Arthur’s neck, breathes him in, and sleeps.

No nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading! Please comment and let me know what you thought of this fic <3


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